


Concept Grass

by night_reveals



Category: Grimm (TV)
Genre: Drug Use, Fic Exchange, Humor, M/M, Mpreg, Synesthesia, pinch hit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-07
Updated: 2012-04-07
Packaged: 2017-11-03 05:51:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,125
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/378003
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/night_reveals/pseuds/night_reveals
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nick gets purposefully high and accidentally pregnant.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Concept Grass

**Author's Note:**

  * For [silva_draconis](https://archiveofourown.org/users/silva_draconis/gifts).



> Written as a quick pinch hit for [GRIMM Exchange April 2012](http://grimm-exchange.dreamwidth.org). Thanks to platina for help with the German; thanks to Yvi and Caitlin and Nellz for the company and beta’ing. This is my first time writing to another’s specifications, and my ridiculous contrary nature made it quite harder than it probably should have been. 
> 
> For mental reference and general edification, Nick on poor dead Aunt Marie’s bed:
> 
>   
> [ ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=516roTMtP0o)  
> _My mouse is a helpful pointer to Nick’s sweet spot and a damning indictment of my true laziness._  
> 

In retrospect, sniffing unknown green substances hidden in jars at the bottom of Aunt Marie’s trunk was a bad idea. Among the knick-knacks and other-worldly belongings the small wooden chest was relatively incongruous at the foot of the bed, an afterthought more than a discovery.

The rusted lock holding its wood panelling together had given way easily to a few judicious kicks of Nick’s boot, after which Nick remembered saying, as he lifted the jar to his face, “This is a bad idea.” Usually Monroe nixed the really bad ideas before they grew into really bad actions, but it was close to the full moon – or at least that was how Monroe excused it – so instead of being the voice of reason Monroe had just smiled loosely and replied, “Dude, that smells _awesome_.”

Before they opened the jar, its lid caked over with something purple, Nick brushed the dirt off the sides to reveal a label penned in Aunt Marie’s exacting hand.

“Empfangnisgras,“ he read out carefully. He turned to Monroe, who was across the table busy fondling both himself along with some old book, one finger playing with his lower lip and one tracing ancient words. Nick put a hand out over the page, obstructing Monroe’s view and getting Monroe’s attention. “Empfangnisgras. What’s it mean?”

“Empfangnisgras?” Monroe raised an eyebrow in sudden interest. “I’ve heard of it but never actually seen any.” He paused. “Well. Kind of.”

“Kind of?”

“It’s a plant related to lots of – other plants. Some of which I have seen.” Monroe shifted, his eyes darting up to Nick’s, then back down to the book in front of him.

“Related to ‘other plants’?” Nick brought the jar closer to him. The glass it was made from was obviously old, a rather sickly yellow that almost turned the contents blue. It made sense that it might be a plant. “‘Gras’,” read Nick again. “Let me guess. German for ‘grass’?”

“Yeah. Grass.” Monroe kept his eyes on the book on the table, even though Nick’s hand clearly blocked his reading.

“And the first part, ‘empfangnis’?” asked Nick, staring at Monroe. Monroe shrugged, his sweater bunching up around his shoulders for a moment.

“It means ‘concept’,” he said. Then, instead of going on a tangent as he usually did when he had a chance to gush at Nick, he turned back to Aunt Marie’s stash.

“Concept grass,” Nick said to himself, starting to shake the jar. Whatever it was, it was light enough to make no noise; he felt as though he’d seen it before, somewhere – but he’d never heard of empfangnisgras.

It took ten minutes for Nick to pry the lid off of the jar, but when he did, the recognition was automatic.

“Grass?” Nick looked disbelievingly into the jar. “ _Weed_? Aunt Marie was a reefer?”

Monroe carefully looked anywhere but at Nick.

“You knew.” Nick put the grass on the table between them, frowning. Not that he knew from experience, of course, but the leaves inside would be barely enough to get a buzz off of.

“I told you, I’ve never had any empfangnisgras. Didn’t even know it was real.”

“So, what’s special about it?”

“Uh,” started Monroe promisingly. “It mimics synesthesia. It’s very potent. And grown in Iceland. By dragons.”

Nick tried to convey the amount of disbelief he felt only using his face, but it couldn’t be contained.

“Dragons?” he asked, knowing the _really, Monroe?_ would come through.

“Well not anymore, obviously,” said Monroe defensively. “I’m sure Grímsson would have something to say about that.” Then, helpfully, “That’s the president of Iceland. Which is funny, because his name almost sounds like Gri – ” Monroe stopped, swallowed, and looked back down at his book. Nick lifted his eyebrow a smidgen higher for good measure.

“I thought you said dragons were mythological?”

“You know how it is.” Monroe waved a hand around, then returned it to his mouth for a good, distracting gnawing. “Myth. History. Often the same thing. Oh, that’s funny. If you try to say them together at the same time, you get ‘mystery’!”

“You all right?” Nick cocked his head at Monroe, who was now sniffing the air as if he were hunting, his head whipping from side to side.

“Fine.” Monroe tapped a finger against the book laid out in front of him, then inhaled for what seemed like forever. “Wow. It smells pretty awesome in here. I mean, you usually do, but the stuff makes you – . Really, a one-two punch.”

 _You usually do?_ , mouthed Nick to himself, trying to figure that out. But it only took a moment for Monroe's other statement to click. Nick turned to the table and picked up the empfangisgras, which still had its lid off. It wasn’t a surprise that Monroe had been able to smell it, what with his super-nose and all, but actually getting high?

“We’re not even burning it,” said Nick, turning with the jar in his hand towards Monroe. “Are you high just off smelling the leaves?”

“Oh, oh no no no no.” Monroe walked forward, face stricken and completely overwrought. “Nick. _Nick_. You never burn emfangisgras. This stuff is so precious.”

“I thought you said you’d never had it?”

“I haven't. I thought it was a myth.”

“Later we’re going to get a dictionary and look up the meaning of ‘myth’ together,” grumbled Nick softly.

“My grandfather used to talk about his great-great-grandmother using it to help with healing, or something,” continued Monroe, smile spreading over his face for no reason.

“I think I know what the ‘or something’ was.” Nick rolled his eyes as he tugged Monroe over to the bed in the corner and pushed him down onto Aunt Marie’s stuffy blue and green comforter. “Sit here, before you pass out.”

“I’m not tired, Nick,” said Monroe, stretching up. His sweater rose with his shoulders, and a bit of skin at his stomach poked out, hair from below his belly button tufting out over his jeans. A week ago Nick had run his hands under Monroe’s shirt, both of them slightly tipsy as they knocked their heels back on the couch. They’d passed out together before anything had really happened, and gone on as if absolutely nothing had. Nick remembered that under his clothes Monroe was firmer than he looked, though.

Nick shook himself and refocused.

Sure enough, Monroe didn’t look like he’d been smoking weed: he was clear-eyed and moving easily, no yawning or complaining about the lack of edibles. Nick shrugged and picked up the jar once more, examining it. Maybe it was just everything good about weed without any of the annoying side-effects?

“Are you going to smell it too?” Monroe sprawled more on the bed, goofy smile on his face. “It does smell awesome.”

“This is a bad idea,” Nick mumbled, but it didn’t stop him raising the jar. A little sniff was all he’d try, just like back in college when he’d had only a toke or two. That was what he told himself, anyway. But the leaves were not anything like what he'd expected.

On the first inhale they smelled like the blue cheese salads Monroe made and ate with relish. On the second they smelled like Monroe's flannel sheets, a reminder of the one time Nick, beat-up and in dire need of a nap, had fallen asleep on his couch after a stakeout. And on the third, Nick could almost taste the eggs and cheese that Monroe had made him the next morning, nagging Nick about protecting himself as he puttered around the kitchen.

Nick wrenched the jar away from himself, capping it quickly and setting it down.

"Oh," he said, planting his hands on the table. "Oh, wow."

"It smelled like something to you?" asked Monroe, head lazing back on the wall and legs sprawled out over the side of the bed, his feet scuffing up the floor.

"Uh," said Nick, swallowing. "Yeah. Nice things."

Monroe laughed. "Yeah, man. Me too."

Nick couldn't figure out his head: his thoughts weren't muddled like with alcohol, yet he wasn't a giggling mess like with pot. He was heady, perfect. Happiness and completion lined his body, and he was so light that if he jumped he thought he might leave Earth's grip. He sat down next to Monroe so that he wouldn't try and end up accidentally bumping his head on the ceiling like a fool.

"So what about you?" he returned. Perhaps he’d only thought of things associated with Monroe because Monroe was near?

"Oh, my mom's den. Leaves after the rain." Monroe looked across the trailer, quieted for a second, then finished with, "Things like that."

"'S nice," murmured Nick, distracted; so much for his theory. He thought he'd be embarrassed by his memories of Monroe, but instead he was content thinking of Monroe's pilates and History Channel documentaries, of Monroe's childish happiness at the simplest things. "Wait a second," said Nick, interrupting his own thoughts. "Earlier, you said, 'you usually do'. You said, 'It smells awesome in here; you usually do.'"

Monroe flicked a nervous glance at Nick. "Don't shoot me or anything," he said, pulling a bit away, the bed dipping beneath him. "But you do."

"So, like what?" Nick’s head began to spin like it hadn't been before. Maybe this time they’d actually get somewhere.

"What do you mean?" Monroe wrung his hands once, then seemed to notice and forced them down.

"What do I smell like?"

Nick watched as Monroe swallowed, his adam's apple bobbing slowly in his throat. Time slowed as he leaned closer, sniffing gingerly at the air near Nick. On Monroe's exhale, Nick shuddered, Monroe's breath sliding over his skin like the softest blanket, Nick’s nerve endings laid bare and waiting to be touched in any way. Testing, Nick ran a finger over his arm. As he’d expected, his own fingers were unremarkable.

Without even a thought, Nick offered his throat up, eyes on Monroe’s.

“Nick – ” croaked Monroe, voice obviously sticking in his throat, staring at Nick. “What’re you doing?”

“What do I smell like?” repeated Nick. Monroe looked around as if hoping someone would save him – and what a liar, when he was practically drooling over Nick’s neck. Eventually his eyes ended up back on Nick, till he was staring right at the pulse point sweetly beating in Nick’s throat.

“Oh man man man man,” said Monroe quickly, breathing shallow. He crept forward as if scared Nick would change his mind and push away, but Nick couldn’t even think of it.

Consumed with waiting, Nick almost jerked back in shock when a nose touched his neck, sparks flying through his skin and bursting in his head in an explosion of scent and color – the dark wood of Monroe’s favorite clocks, the scent of walnut and sweet pine, the swirl of dappled purple with rich red-brown. All of it danced in Nick’s head, in his nose, his body. Working his hands under Monroe’s shirt, Nick thumbed the rough, wiry hair on Monroe’s chest. Each strand caught in his fingers and sang in his head like the lingering echo of the low thrum of Monroe’s cello, filling him, and he felt more than heard himself moan. The thrill of discovery urged Nick on, buttons on Monroe’s shirts and pants giving way with a sound like water over stone.

“Fuck.” Nick grabbed at Monroe’s shoulder, gasping at the hot, unexpected tongue at his navel. Monroe held him down by the hips, working off his pants and boxers easily, biting at Nick’s stomach, eyes slammed shut.

It was a surprise to Nick when his hands at last traveled over Monroe’s skin unimpeded, their clothes thrown across the trailer, shoes kicked to the end of the bed.

“You haven’t answered my question,” he reminded, tugging Monroe up.

Monroe panted against Nick’s neck, held Nick’s arm down to the bedspread, and mumbled into his ear, “Leather. Like your jackets. Jelly Bellies, like you keep under your front seat.” Monroe nipped at Nick’s ear, sharp teeth reminding Nick of the cool imprint once left over on his face from the metal of Monroe’s telescope, a perfect circle round his eye. Monroe continued, “That awful beer you refuse to stop drinking.”

“Hey,” Nick protested, twining his hands in Monroe’s hair to pull him down. “‘s a local brewery.”

Monroe scoffed and opened his mouth to say something, but Nick was smart enough to cut him off with a kiss. If hands on hands and skin on skin had been good before, their lips touching simply ignited the air between them, starting something that Nick couldn’t and didn’t want to control. Their bodies slid together with sweat and excitement, all the tastes and sounds and smells of their months together coming over them in waves, smashing their tenuous holds on thought and reason.

Nick let go, and fell into sense.

A half-hour later he ran his hand over Monroe’s chest, tugging at the short hairs there and listening to the tones of a cello reverberate softly around him.

“How long will it last?” he asked, pulling at the curl of hair close to Monroe’s sternum that played a perfect D minor.

“Who knows. About as long as pot, maybe?”

Nick huffed out a laugh. “I knew you’d smoked before. I should arrest you.”

“You wouldn’t send me to jail,” Monroe said. “They don’t offer vegetarian options. Besides. You can’t arrest me if I don’t actually have any on me. Uh. Right?”

“Yeah, generally. I really need to educate you on your rights, don’t I?”

“Hey, man, meeting police never meant anything good for me in the past. I try to stay away,” explained Monroe. “Besides, I would never trust you to educate me. I’ve seen the way you and Hank break down doors and smash windows without warrants.”

“That is totally legal,” Nick lied.

They bickered as they got dressed and left, the door of the trailer banging behind Monroe loudly. Nick steadily ignored the ache in his ass and gunned his car for home.

~*~

In retrospect, Nick should have gone to the doctor after the spasms and strange, firm growth in his stomach expanded for months and months. He didn’t until Monroe literally dragged him, of course, because as Monroe shouted at the time, Nick was “an unbelievable idiot with no sense of self-preservation.” It was the first time Nick had ever been the object of Monroe’s raised voice, and he hadn’t enjoyed it as much as he thought he might have. The spasms and eventual trip to Monroe’s Wesen doctor-friend down in Tualatin left Nick and Monroe sitting side by side in the doctor’s tiny kitchenette, completely flabbergasted.

“Have either of you ingested any strange chemicals in the past eight months that might explain this?” asked Dr Manning, sitting on the worn chair across from the pair of them. The air conditioning in her house was broken, so she kept wiping at her square glasses with a finger, trying to keep them clear of condensation in the unnaturally muggy summer that had hit the northwest. Nick really wished she’d just give in and open a window.

“We encountered a Baumbiest that sprinkled its pollen on us in April,” said Monroe tentatively.

Dr Manning shook her head. “This would have been closer to December.”

His hands fisted in his hair and his eyes set on the table before him, Nick gritted out, “If that far back, then nothing. The only thing we had then was that empi – empfa – concept grass.”

Dr Manning cocked her head in confusion, and Nick’s stomach dropped.

“He means empfangisgras, doctor.” Monroe sat rigidly, his voice hollow.

“Ah.” The doctor bit her lip in what looked like amusement, then swiped at her glasses. “That is just a myth. But no matter. Empfangis doesn’t translate to ‘concept’; it translates to ‘conception’. It makes your situation a bit more understandable, perhaps? I know in myths it is used for recreational purposes, but obviously that information can’t be trusted.”

Nick stared ahead, gaping, then turned to Monroe, who looked like he was trying to crawl off the couch away from Nick without actually moving.

“Damn these glasses.” Dr Manning stood, frowning. “I’ll be right back. Have to get a cloth and open some windows.”

As soon as she’d left the room, Nick whirled on Monroe. “‘Concept’ grass?”

Monroe held up his hands in innocence. “I played a lot of the German version of Scrabble in Frankfurt! I tried to remember the meanings, too – ”

“Obviously you failed,” said Nick, almost hissing. “And neither you nor Dr Manning seem to know the meaning of the word ‘myth’. You’re bad at word meanings in multiple languages! What an accomplishment.”

“Nick.” Monroe grabbed Nick’s hand and put one on his slightly bulging belly, where, if Dr Manning was to be believed, a healthy baby boy was impossibly growing. “I’m sorry. It’s my fault this is a surprise. I didn’t know.”

Nick shook off Monroe’s grip and covered his face with his own hands, wheezing into them.

“Do you need a paper bag?” asked Monroe conscientiously.

The glare Nick leveled at Monroe somehow lowered the ambient temperature of the room a few degrees.

“Uh. Guess not.” Monroe crossed his legs at the ankles and started radiating moroseness.

“I’m going home.” Nick levered himself up, looking around for Monroe’s keys.

“But the doctor hasn’t talked to us about what we need to do for you,” started Monroe, his hands on his knees as if holding himself down.

“ _We_ don’t need to do anything. Like she said earlier, it’s too late to do anything about it – the, the baby. So I’m heading back to Portland. You can drive if you want, and drop me off at my house. Keys.” Nick held out a hand, beyond caring that he was demanding Monroe let him drive Monroe’s own car.

“Nick,” said Monroe softly. “You should stay. This stuff is important to your health.”

“Then take notes for me,” shouted Nick sarcastically, letting the door slam shut behind him.

In the stifling heat of Monroe’s Bug, Nick hit the steering wheel, then rested his forehead on its searing hot leather. At that angle he could see the bulge of his stomach, small enough to be easily confused with a beer belly or aging, if it hadn’t popped up over a period of less than a year. There couldn’t be a baby in there – except that Dr Manning had taken an ultrasound in her back room, and shown Nick the tiny fisted hands and the curve of skull that was undeniably going to become a little human being. Nick had thrown the picture of the ultrasound at Monroe as if it burned, and Monroe had carefully tucked it into his wallet when Nick had refused to hold it.

It was still just a picture, though.

Nick shook his head to clear it and started back to Portland.

~*~

At his small apartment, Nick found himself picking at the skin on his fingers, pushing the cuticles down and then pulling them back up. Every few minutes he checked his phone, unlocking and relocking it obsessively. There was no text from Monroe, even though since that day in the trailer Monroe’d treated Nick to his copious random thoughts at all times. Eight hours without a text was a new record, and Nick couldn’t help worrying about how Monroe had gotten home. His finger hovered over Monroe’s name, ready to call.

His phone chose that moment to die.

Sighing, Nick somehow got himself ready for bed. He had work tomorrow, and he needed to mentally prepare for the stares he’d been getting at the station for at least a month. Showers had once had been his favorite part of unwinding, but knowing that he had a – a freakin’ baby inside him made it just a little less enjoyable. He couldn’t imagine what a baby boy would look like, much less how he would become a father, or how to explain it to anyone. Before Nick knew, his worries had consumed an hour of his time, the shower running cool around him.

It was as he was dripping onto the hardwood floors of his small living room, dressed only in his boxers and sleep shirt, that someone knocked three perfectly spaced times on his front door.

Relief that Nick refused to acknowledge edged in, and he walked to the door. It could only be Monroe.

~*~

“What,” said Nick, eyes wide. “What is all this stuff?”

Monroe peeked out from behind the six pillows he held in his arms. “The lady at the store said they helped take weight off the posterior during sleep in pregnancy.”

Nick stared at Monroe. “You bought me an ass-pillow?”

“Well.” Monroe shifted under the pillows, and the top one – pink with purple hearts – came tumbling down. “They’re for your posterior. It’s good for you and the baby.”

“There’s a red one, though.” The pillow in question was shaped like an oversized candy cane, it’s arch big enough to envelop Nick’s torso. Monroe somehow found his way over the the couch and threw down his load.

“Yeah, I was thinking of dying it black. I had to get that one, though, because it’s three pillows in one, and reduces head, neck, and back pain,” he said earnestly. Taking off his jacket, Monroe stepped forward and kissed Nick on the cheek before Nick could say anything or dodge it. “Here’re the notes from earlier.” Monroe handed him the legal pad he had brought to Dr Manning’s house. It was filled with looping cursive and tiny sketches of constellations, dots connected in seemingly random order to form barely coherent pictures. Nick skimmed it and saw the heading ‘The Delivery Process’ and immediately flipped it shut.

“Monroe – ” started Nick, but Monroe had already left, presumably to get more unnecessary things from his car.

The brown jacket that Monroe wore constantly lay slung over the couch, his wallet peeking out from one of its pockets. Nick looked at the door and listened. He figured he had a few minutes alone to wait.

Opening the wallet, Nick noticed Monroe’s state ID and credit cards first. But tucked carefully behind them, a black strip just edging over hard plastic, was the picture from the ultrasound earlier that day. Nick took it out slowly, refusing to blink as he did, as if it were a monster he only had to stare down to conquer. He refocused when it was finally out: it looked terrifying, its head down low and tiny hands held close to its body, like a little velociraptor. Held in his hand, the picture of the cells that would become his child seemed even smaller than it actually was, it’s head only as big as Nick’s finger.

“Wow,” said Nick on an exhale.

“‘Wow’ what?” asked Monroe from the door, hefting a pile of books and miscellany onto the coffee table in front of Nick. Hiding the small picture in his palm, Nick shrugged.

“Nothing,” he said, and nodded at Monroe’s catch. “What’s this, then?”

Monroe smiled wide. “Pre-natal vitamins.” He shook a bottle at Nick. “Before you complain, Dr Manning recommended them for you. And some books. I made sure to check the New York Times and the latest National Institutes of Health recommendations, and asked my friend Delilah for some tips, too – ”

“Okay, okay, okay,” said Nick, holding up a hand. On the table the pile of books looked ridiculously daunting: _Pregnancy, Childbirth, and Newborns_ , a dog-eared of something called _Birth Reborn_ , and _The Birth Partner_ , which Monroe was clutching like a lifeline. “Wait. Is that one named _Dude, You’re Gonna be a Dad_?”

“No!” Monroe flipped it over, juggling the bottles and books and tiny clothes he still held in his arms. “Well. Maybe? The cashier recommended it,” he defended.

The only thing Nick found himself able to do was bury his head in his hands again, like he had at Dr Manning’s. He still clutched the ultrasound, and it felt cool against his cheek, finally just a picture and not his impossible future. He took a deep breath.

The couch sank when Monroe sat down next to him and Nick listed towards Monroe without trying. Monroe peeled Nick’s arms down, not letting him pull away. Together they stared down at the slightly squished ultrasound, the baby’s velociraptor arms scrunched up at a crease and its head bulging from where Nick had pressed it in with his thumb.

“Dude,” said Monroe, soft and respectful. “This is going to be amazing.”

And yeah. Looking down at his half-Grimm, half-Blutbad baby, who resembled a long-dead dinosaur more than he did either of his fathers, Nick had to laugh, and agree.

“Yeah. Yeah, it is.”


End file.
